The chaos of a busy Japanese city. The noise and lights overwhelm Izzy. She breathes in deeply, then out slowly, and relaxes. A wave of memory floods her mind.
After 2 years of a 7-5 job, the clueless man sits at his desk attempting to do something. Every time he asks his boss, the man says the reports. The reports don’t exist, so even after all this time, he still doesn’t know what he is supposed to be doing.
His boss berates him daily for failing at his work but still hasn’t fired him. He secretly wonders if it is his job to be a professional punching bag. He looks up at the clock. The end of the workday was 2 hours ago, but his colleagues are still working. He has to keep up appearances like he cares. He looks around and silently screams, “What am I supposed to be doing!” He stares at the empty Word document on the screen.
His fellow coworkers are shuffling out of the office. He saves the empty file and grabs his umbrella. The gentle rain outside muted the vibrancy of the city. He Standing in the train station looking at his phone, a cute woman wearing a traditional kimono with a pattern of ornate roses with a gold border walks through the crowd smiling and handing out tissue packs.
He thinks she is beautiful. He takes one of the packs and smiles. Then she is gone. Leaving behind the scent of roses. He tucks the tissue pack in his pocket and goes back to trying to ignore everyone and retreat into his little cyber-bubble.
A jingle snaps him out of his focus; he looks up. The train is stopping in the station, the doors are opening, and a wave of people leave the train, then his group rushes in. He makes it inside but is jostled hard enough that the napkins fall out of his pocket, the included advertisement falling out of the clear plastic wrapper. He picks them both up, and he examines the card. “Beautiful Flower Host Club,” it proclaims in big, bold font. He flips the card over in his hand, and in big letters it says. “First night free,” he shrugs and puts it in his pocket.
“Phh, host clubs are for lonely old men,” he dismisses the whole thing. He looks around the train. He knows no one. He thinks about work; he knows his boss, but he doesn’t know anyone else.
“No,” he whispers.
He looks around the train, feeling panic set in; he looks for any familiar face at all. But there really is no one.
“This is my life?” he whispers. “Am I lonely?” He asks the faceless mass of people riding through the evening light with him.
But they don’t answer.
The train doors open twice, and he steps off. He feels excitement at the chance for something new. New experiences, new things, new anything—just new something.
Walking out of the train station, the world is filled with the neon lights and the smell of sake and vomit and the smell of cigarettes and old men. He doesn’t have far to walk. A beautiful neon sign proclaims the Beautiful Flower Host Club in sweeping green letters, with women and men dressed in expensive clothing funneling people through the doors.
A short, balding man greets him just inside. “Welcome, welcome, welcome. What can I get you tonight? A table for two? Three?” He asks, and he gestures to a group of women with a few men included just in case for the office worker to pick through.
The office worker scans through the group. They are all attractive and unique in one way or another, but only one makes his heart race. She just walked in the room; her kimono has roses on it and a gold edge. It’s the girl from the train station. He watches her approach the manager.
He notices small things about her, like her kimono is an older style, something his parents or grandparents would wear. Her skin is as white as moonlight, her hair is like ink, and there is not a trace of emotion on her face. He is intrigued.
“Her,” he says and gestures with his eyebrows, indicating the woman with inhuman grace.
The maître d’ frowns. “No, no, no, you don’t want her.”
“I do,” he says, seeing a flicker of a smile on the pale-skinned moon princess’s face at his insistence.
“No, no, no, she can be a bit much for first-timers.” The manager pressed
“I want her, please,” he says, trying to be confident.
The manager gestures to the other women. “Surely another of these beautiful ladies suits your fancy.”
The manager watches as the guest’s expression falls “If you insist, sir, but you have been warned.” He points to one of the other ladies, a waitress, to take them to a table and take orders.
The table is comfortable. The woman introduces herself as Yoko. She doesn’t offer a last name, and he doesn’t tell her his.
The waitress brings out an affordable wine. Yoko frowns. She hates the role she is forced to play. She takes a half sip of the wine; it’s good, fruity, and sweet. But she is playing a role. “This is good, but my favorite is Dom Pérignon.”
He looks at the menu and is painfully shocked at the price. “Yeah, sure, let’s get a bottle after this.”
She smiles, but it’s a fake one. She feels frustrated; she just wants the wine and okonomiyaki. She sighed and half sipped the wine again.
The bottle is empty; she is sad to see it go. The champagne is brought out, the cork popped, and glasses poured.
She smiles and acts happy, but it is hollow; she feels lonely for an instant, and she can’t hide her emotions.
He notices her expression flick to one of deep sadness. He is shocked; he thought they were having a good time together.
He touches her hand to comfort her; he knows he shouldn’t have. The security guard moves close, ready to throw him out.
He smiles. She is so warm and soft and electric.
Yoko waves the bodyguard away, grabbing ahold of the salaryman’s hand.
a familiar feeling like a buzz behind his eyes. ‘Not this, not now,’ he thinks, but the feeling grows stronger than ever before, his irises becoming relaxed, letting in far too much light as a telepathic connection forms.
He can feel her loneliness, and she can feel his. There is an intimacy of feeling another’s emotions, feeling their heartbeat and the shallowness of their breath. It only lasts a moment before they break contact. He feels a chill down his spine. He has the urge to never let her go, to stay by her side holding her hand till the end of time.
She lets go of him and empties her glass of champagne. “You’re special,” she whispers.
“So are you,” he whispers back, emptying his own glass.
They finish the bottle and the next and the next, never touching. Both intoxicated and exhausted, their fun is ended when his phone buzzes with the theme song from Ranma ½, telling him it’s time to sleep.
He smiles at Yoko, beautiful Yoko. “Tomorrow? You will be here?”
She smiles back, her porcelain mask breaking, showing real emotion: excitement, happiness, and longing. “Yes,” she whispers and, with a strength of will, pulls her emotions back under control.
The train ride home is a blur; he apologizes to the landlady for being out so late and heads down the hallway.
He lays out his bed and climbs in it, the alcohol and the emotional connection nuzzling each other in his head.
“Yoko,” he whispers. He grabs his penis and strokes slowly, “Yoko.”
A tired hostess sneaks into the security office. The security guard is flipping through his phone. She smiles at him and tells him the boss wants to speak with him now. He sets his coffee and his cigarette down and rushes, almost tripping over himself, to leave the room. She sits down and looks at the computer system blankly, then looks down at the registration form. She memorizes the address, then puts everything back where it goes.
